


It Gets The Truth Out

by arlenejp



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, Sherlock TV
Genre: Dominance, M/M, Whipping, anal rape, taking command
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-03
Updated: 2017-10-03
Packaged: 2018-12-23 22:16:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11999040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arlenejp/pseuds/arlenejp
Summary: John is tired of Sherlock running off without him.





	It Gets The Truth Out

**Author's Note:**

> there is physical abuse, a whipping.

Again I'm left standing alone while that fucker Sherlock runs off after the man who just shot and killed a shopkeeper. I have no idea where he's gone off to, which street he's now on. He never warns me, and if I turn my back on him, he's off. 

* * *

This shit has got to stop. I can't tolerate the idea that he blindly places himself in danger without someone with him. Namely ME! As his so-called colleague, I should be right by his side.

* * *

Standing off to the side of all the police cars, wondering whether to wait here or just head back to the flat Detective Inspector Lestrade eyes me and moves in my direction.

* * *

          "Come on; I'll give you a lift home, John."

In his car, he senses my frustration with the way things are.

          "John, I don't know what to tell you. How do you get through to him? He's going to get himself seriously hurt or killed. We train never to go out without a second and here is running off like some hot-headed ass.

          "Can you knock sense into that curly head of his?"

* * *

          "I have no choice, Greg, this is getting intolerable. I've got to find a way."

* * *

All evening I wait for Sherlock to come home.

I'm in my chair, a cup of tea next to me, the small lamps lit. Ideas run through me.

I understand, tackling this head on and with complete honesty, the situation between us is that I'm almost subservient to him.

Why, is the mystery. In my military life and the clinic, I take charge, in command of all aspects of my life then and now. With Sherlock, here and on cases I relinquish my authority to him most of the time.

Why? Why?

* * *

John Watson, you know the answer to that question! Don't want to face the fact that you're in love with him.

Afraid to open your mouth, to show the affection you have. He would be shocked and repelled. Affection is not his strong suit.

* * *

You live in terror of being shucked off, thrown out of his life.

Instead, you find the fine line between a partner and a colleague. Never stepping over that line.

* * *

In sheer desperation, I'm now at the point of having to force myself to take charge. To show my hand, as they say.

* * *

To do that will require desperate moves on my part. Forgetting my emotions and becoming the hardened captain I was in the army.

* * *

As the hours go and no text, no call, no Sherlock my irritation grows. 

And my anxiety as to what has happened to him. Is he lying hurt someplace or worse? Dead? You can text or call him, John.  
Picking up my mobile I start to hit the numbers, then stop.

Nope, played that game too many times.

The 'where are you,' 'are you okay' and no answers back. I'll be patient and wait.

* * *

I realize I'd fallen asleep in my chair when what jogs me awake is his footsteps coming up the steps. It's morning, nine twenty-five to be exact, looking at my watch.

* * *

He takes off his coat and scarf, knowing I'm sitting in my chair and surmising I hadn't moved from my place all night.

          "Morning, John, you didn't have to wait up for me."

* * *

          "I didn't." 

I pick up a book I had purposely left on my lap, also had on my PJs.

          "Was reading and nodded off." 

My usual response would show him anger and disgruntlement, and this seems to throw him off a bit.

* * *

          "But now that you have just walked in," I say, trying to be casual,"Where the effing hell did you run off to?" 

My hands are tightly holding the sides of the armchair. Control yourself.

* * *

          "It took a bit of time, but I did apprehend our killer. Why are you upset? I see it in your body, even though you're trying to hide it."

          "Come over here, and I'll tell you," my hands fisting and unfisting, the exasperation surfacing partly into relief he's here and discontent with myself for not holding in my frustrations.

The look on his face when he stands in front of me is so classical Sherlock. Innocence personified. That does it. I lose myself.

* * *

Standing up, my face screwed up in anger I let go a punch to his face with full force.

He reels back, holding his cheek.

          "What inspired that? Oh, I see, you're angry because I left you behind," his voice dripping irritability.

          "Bingo! You hit the jackpot." 

And I punch him again.

He's thrown against the desk and moves away from me to sit on the sofa, rubbing his cheek with a hand.

* * *

          "John, can we discuss this without the fisticuffs?"

          "Discuss? Discuss? There's nothing to discuss, you--"

I pant, breathing deeply to try to clear my head. Let it go, breath and do what you've planned. He deserves an explanation of your discontent.

* * *

          "Sherlock, I run with you, I do my best to keep up, but your long legs put you at an advantage. Plus you never warn me when you're taking off like you did yesterday. You are going to get killed unless you have a backup. And that's what I've tried to do, to be there for you. Damn!

* * *

          "I know--"

          "Oh shut up, just shut up. This- this is no joke anymore."

* * *

I close the space between us, lean into him and before he can react I have the one-half of the handcuff locked on a wrist of his.

          "John-"

          "Jesus, don't you ever listen to any other voice but yours? Shut up I said. I don't want to hear anything from you anymore. I'm in charge now, do you get it?" as another half of the cuff goes around my wrist.

* * *

          "We're going to be like one person today. Walking, running, whatever it takes. We'll do it together."

A grin lights up his face.

          "Are you challenging me, John?"

          "Damn you; this is no challenge. This is-"

          "Ah but it is. And I accept."

* * *

And with that, he jumps up and says, "I need the loo."

He's playing with me again.

Walking to the bathroom I let him go in while I stand at the door, my arm outstretched, my head turned off to the side not looking.

Standing in front of the toilet as he unzips, he quips,"Do you want to hold me?"

Frustrated at his attitude, I'm only getting more enraged.

* * *

          "Ok, you bastard, you're going to be sorry you're joking about this."

He finishes, puts himself together and stands there waiting.

          "Come on," dragging him down the hall to his bedroom.

          "Sit on the bed."

He does, but still with a sly smile on his face, looking up at me.

          "Sex slave perhaps?"

* * *

To him, this is funny, amusing. What will John Watson think of next, I can imagine his reasoning. 

The more he looks entertained by this, the more I become offended

* * *

My face screws uptight as I shove him, none too easily, down onto the bed, taking the cuff off me and quickly attaching it to the metal bed headboard.

He's tolerating this, not fighting, waiting to see what transpires.

* * *

Seeing him lying on that bed, restrained, it's now much more than teaching him a lesson.

I fucking want what my heart has been longing for these last years.

* * *

I'm shaking not from being overwrought but from desire. Breathing hard, my mouth dry, I've now become conscious of the fact that I'm standing over the one individual I want to fuck.

And it's a man!

A good-looking man at that!

One I've been fascinated by, infatuated with since the day we met.

* * *

All this runs through my mind in the few seconds while visualizing him as my captive. 

My cock is bulging, and my face grows pink as he observes and reads me.

His demeanor changes to one of anxiety, his face is reacting to me. No more mockery. His eyes change color from light green to dark.

I do need to think this through.

          "I'm going to make tea and will bring you some also."

* * *

Into the kitchen with my body shivering with the need for him.

I can't let him take control. Not this time, not with my passion revealed to him now.

He's quite good at tearing me down and making me submissive. I'm afraid of doing anything to hurt our relationship, but-.

I set the two cups on the nightstand once back in the bedroom, sit on the bed and look into those intense hazel eyes.

          "Sherlock, I'm going to remove the cuff from you. But I- I need a promise-and I know you to keep your word."

          "Go ahead, what am I promising?"

Painfully difficult to give in to this- but surrendering to my new found greed, I stretch out my chest - go ahead, you weak ninny. Take what you want.

          "I want you to promise to stay on the bed, to let me-ah, minister to you."

          "Why, I'm not sick? Oh, you mean-?"

Tracking the perceptions on his face is amazing!

          "Yes, can you do that?"

          "Missing having a good fuck are you?"

Sighing at his constant deducing and derision,"Do you promise?"

          "John, I can't promise something so vague. Can you be specific?"

          "Damn you, if that's the way it's going to be then let it be on your conscience."

Seething passion and rage conflict in me.

* * *

Tea is forgotten, sitting on the nightstand getting cold.

I'm doing this; I have to-go ahead-keep telling this to yourself. The cuff remains locked onto the headboard.

I begin by opening the buttons on Sherlock's shirt and pulling it out of his trousers. He lies there, continuing to evaluate my moves.

I smirk at him.

"Can't figure out whether I'm going to follow through, can you?"

Watching him become more uncertain, more unpredictable, I gain more confidence.

          "John?" and I hear a throatiness to his voice.

* * *

Pulling his shirt wide open, I run a shaky hand over his chest.

Oh, god, I'm doing this! I'm touching him!

          "Sherlock," I breathlessly say, into the side of his neck. 

He jumps and with his free hand he pushes me off him.

His features scowl, anger, maybe even surprise.

          "Are you going to rape me?" in a voice that barrels down, down into my being.

The storm boils back up inside me.

          "Do you think I would do something so horrific to you? What the fuck do you take me for?"

          "At the moment a sex-starved creature permitting sexual tension to outweigh any ramifications. And, possibly looking for some sort of revenge on me."

          "That's it," choking sounds from my throat, "you wanker, I'm trying to show-show you I care, and you turn it into a-a joke of some sort," as I rise off the bed, torn between desire and tears.

* * *

Trying to control the tightness in me I fist my hands, one fist hits the bed, narrowly missing Sherlock's leg.

* * *

          "Make fun of me, make me a fool in front of the police, so inadequate, this John Watson,"snarling. 

Exasperation and this burning lust are battling within me.

* * *

I turn out of the room and into the sitting room to look for a particular item of this psychopath's. 

I know it's in this room. I've seen him play with it numerous times.

And, under the sofa I find it. The riding crop that Irene gave him.

Careful John, you are unstable, unsure of the nature of this anger. Don't do something impulsive. That's irreversible. Don't care anymore.

* * *

Remember captain; you are in charge. Discipline is required.

* * *

I have the riding crop out in front of me stepping back into the room, and Sherlock sees it.

Eyes wide, mouth open.

          "What- do you intend to use that on me?"

No answer to that.

Instead, my right arm whips around, and the crop finds his thighs.

He moves slightly with the hitting, My eyes find his, gleaming with anger, hurt and something else I can't read.

Twice again I hit him with the whip, trying not to hurt, just to shock.

My cock is ripping out of my trousers with my every stroke.

And, I witness something I've never seen before. Sherlock, trousers full, alert.

* * *

Shit, now I have to be very careful.

Again, knowing damn well, he can control me with a look or a word, it's up to me to keep up this facade.

I'm going to have to use force. But keep it contained.

* * *

I place the crop far enough away from the bed and reach over, unzip his trousers. 

His body reacts by twisting and turning, forcing me to climb on the bed with a knee on his chest, facing away from him.

His free hand slaps across the back of my head.

* * *

He's fighting me, trying again to call the shots.

I stop, turning to kneel on the bed, to see his face, slapping his cheek with enough force to turn his head to the side.

His face registers surprise, bewilderment.

* * *

I'm breathing quite hard now. Trying not to back down.

          "John, stop this right now! Get a grip on yourself."

          "Or what? You'll throw me out? Go ahead; I'm tired of living with a madman, tired of jumping to his orders. But right now I'm-" half of a sob wrings out of me. No, no, this is what-? What I must do, be strong.

* * *

          "Make sure you don't regret your actions. Whatever you want, ask, and I'll give it."

What am I doing? Can't, won't.

He's trying to control the situation, and that's what I don't want anymore. Everything is muddled.

* * *

I hear him panting as I get off him and the bed.

With a swift movement, both of my hands have him turned onto his stomach.

          "John?" his muffled voice calls out to me.

His free hand reaches back to hold his trousers up, and I twist his arm with enough force to hear him let out a groan.

He could stop me, but I think it's just beginning to sink in that I'm not quitting.

* * *

The shirt is still on him, and I pull off the sleeve from his free arm, and fling it over his shoulder to rest on the arm that's restricted.

          "Hmm, you look-you are-."

I stop, my ability to vocalize is gone. Breath short, almost not able to stand I advance on the bed again.

Sitting sideways I grasp his trousers and briefs at his waist and tug both down past his knees.

He tries to resist by wriggling side to side.

His backside, god, so tempting, inclining my head down I bite, his ass, severe enough to break the skin.

He squeals and that allows me to finish pulling his garments all the way off him.

* * *

Oh god, that ass, tight, beautiful.

Jumbled, crazy, notions swirl around my head.

I need to think, to focus.

* * *

Walking out of the room, finding a less stressful space to compose me and keep me reined in enough to complete my task.

There's still some whiskey left in the decanter, and I pour myself a glassful, very aware of not getting high at this point.

I take a swig full and hold the glass in hand.

* * *

In the years we've been together I've never seen him involved with anyone, be it, man or woman, unless fishing for information for a case.

John Watson, you've had sex with a man before, in the Army.

I've never talked aloud about it, but I'm sure Sherlock and his brother Mycroft know about the event.

But with Major Sholto, it was a mutual give and take.

It didn't last long. The Major was too afraid someone would find out and ruin his career.

* * *

With Sherlock, if we had sex he would always take. And take.

Taking the glass still half with whiskey I stand Army straight, shoulders back, and resolutely and march into the bedroom.

* * *

Sherlock has turned on his side not facing the door.

"On your stomach and right now.!" I bark out.

To my shock, he does just that without question.

* * *

His face is toward me, and again there's the questioning in them plus his anger.

          "If you touch me-hit me one more-"

          "Oh shut up. Sick of hearing your talk. Analyse someone else."

          "No one here to analyze except you."

          "Do I have to gag you also?"

          "John, you have to stop this right now."

My patience is running thin. Fire blazes from his eyes.

* * *

Not giving in, not reacting to that remark, I turn away, the riding crop catching my attention again, sitting on the floor.

Picking it up and sliding it through my hand, without seeing or caring about his perception of my motives, I swiftly lay the crop down on his back.

His scars that are visible on his back from his mission in Europe for Mycroft, his brother, I don't give a fuck about now. 

Compassion has flown away. It's my world, and what I want now counts.

* * *

My cock strains at my trousers, restraining me, taunting me.

I take a moment out to remove my clothing, leaving them thrown on the floor.

* * *

I know he's facing me, watching, and hearing a deep intake of breath from the man on the bed I have a smug look on me. 

My cock is larger than what it should be for my height and weight. Quite large.

And right now the general is standing at full attention wanting some exercise.

* * *

Bringing my body close to the bed I tease him by waving my cock in his face.

          "Don't say a word, cause if you do, I'll stuff this down your throat."

          "John," he whispers, his voice now quiet, accepting of what is occurring. At least I think he is.

* * *

I'm not letting go in a moment of weakness.

Picking up the crop I lay one across his back, not too hard, just enough to make him jump.

          "This is for the times you leave me behind," and I lay one down with full force.

          "This is for calling me stupid, and an idiot," and another strikes him.

          "One for making me feel small and insignificant in your life," and it hits his back again.

I stop talking and just whip.

* * *

His body jerks to the lash as it hits.

He turns his head into the pillow, and his groans get lost in the muffling of the fabric.

I lose count, lose all time. But of a sudden I find tears running down my face. My arm is tired, and that's enough.

* * *

I drop the whip, seeing the red marks now on Sherlock's back. I've opened skin at certain points.

* * *

My legs give out, and I fall next to Sherlock, on my side, taking care not to touch his back.

I'm crying, but with it all, I'm still hard, still in the midst of want. Deep and craving want.

I rise, spread Sherlock's legs and kneeling between place my cock on his ass crack.

With my hand I run it in the seam of his ass, finding his puckered hole.

Lube, I need lube. Looking around for a tube.

          "In my drawer on the right," comes the muffled voice of the man I intend to ravish.

* * *

Stepping off the bed, I retrieve it, again not looking at that curly head or his face.

Back between those legs, I apply the cream on my fingers and his hole.

Rubbing slowly around him I hear his intake of breath, no words just breathing.

I insert a finger, taking care to lubricate around the area just inside.

          "Umm, ohh," comes from him, his hips twitching.

Two fingers, then three, my arousal is staggering. Can't contain me for much longer.

Moving my fingers inside him, trying to find-, and he yells, his torso vibrating, and I know I've found his spot.

Pulling the digits out, I lavish my cock with lube and head for that sweet spot.

Rubbing gently I push in a tiny bit; his outcry is enough to make me stop.

* * *

I haven't even gotten the tip of my cock fully encased. Pulling out I again lube and push in.

That get's me in as far as the tip. I can't wait. Everything coalesces, tightens. My back arches and with a loud moan my cock throbs and I come, spilling on his hole and crack.

I roll over on my back next to him.

* * *

          "I could use some water, please, John," the words pulling out weakly.

He said please!

Getting the water I turn him on his side so he can drink. Me holding the glass and him taking sips.

          "Let me put salve on your back."

          "No. First talk. We need to talk."

Humfing,"That's usually my line."

          "Seriously, a discussion is required."

          "And seriously is my word. Find a new one." 

My voice is now quieter, even a bit sad.

          "May we please discuss this now instead of waiting?

Holy Shit! He even said may!

          " Firstly, I'm going to clean us up, put some salve on you, and make hot tea. That's what comes first."

          "Whatever you say."

This is creepy.

* * *

I wash, put on my trousers, no pants underneath, take a flannel from the bathroom, an antiseptic and set a pot of tea on the stove.

I clean Sherlock with gentle and loving moves, particularly when applying salve to his wounds.

He's very quiet and calm about the whole thing. Not a word out of him. Occasionally hissing and wincing.

* * *

          "I'm taking off the handcuff, and you can rest in any way you feel comfortable."

In doing so, he sits up, a pillow behind him, resting lightly against it.

I'm shocked to see his face. He's been crying!

Taking a clean end of the flannel, I gently wipe his face and try to comb his hair with my fingers.

* * *

But, I cannot look into those eyes, Afraid of what I'll see there.

* * *

I hear the teapot whistle, I walk into the kitchen, and as I'm pouring the tea, Sherlock comes out, trousers on and looks on as I finish.

          "Some toast if you don't mind," in a pleasant voice. No sarcasm at all.

* * *

Taking the refreshments and us into the sitting room and each of us sits down. Me reclining and Sherlock perched forward in his seat.

I sip my tea and wait.

          "Why? he says.

          "No deducing this time? Lost it maybe?"Yeah, a bit of sarcasm creeps into my voice.

          "John, don't be an-. I don't want to deduce; I'm waiting to hear your reasoning behind this assault."

          "I answered your question when whipping you. Were you not paying attention?"

Eyes downcast, I wait for him to think through the afternoon's events.

* * *

          "You've never known how I felt about you and this was your way of dragging it out of me." Not a question but a statement

A silence.

          "And?" I say still not willing to look directly at him.

          "I've treated you as an inferior when" and I know he's studying me, "you're more important to me than my work is."

I intake a breath quickly.

          " You mean I come before your work?"

Now eye to eye with him.

          "Before and after."

* * *

A sip of tea, he leans forward almost demanding my attention.

          "Not having you tag along meant you wouldn't be in harm's way."

          "And you couldn't? Be in harm's way? The invincible Sherlock," again my voice dripping with irony.

Another sip of tea, and he continues.

          "Jealous of-" I cut him short upon hearing that word.

My eyes widen, and my eyebrows probably shoot off my face.

          " Wait, wait! Jealous? You? Of what?"

          "Let me finish, jealous of your being away from me. The clinic, the women, the nights out drinking."

          "Stop and let me absorb this."

* * *

Jealous, imagine! The one thing I never expected him to say.

After what seemed like an inordinate amount of time I look back into his eyes, deep into to find a softness, a compassion that I've not seen flashed at me.

* * *

Clearing my throat I ask," And now where do we go?"

          "You advise me. You're the captain."

Shit! And that takes my cock up a notch!

Hesitating for only a minute I set my teacup down on the table, stand and walk to him, holding out my hands.

He accepts and stands up.

* * *

Reaching on tiptoes I place my lips gently on his, a slight sigh coming from deep inside me.

His lips remain soft, not demanding.

All reserve is gone, I thrust my tongue out, begging to be invited in, and he opens up. Our tongues clash, and our kiss intensifies. Grabbing that wonderful curly head I comb my fingers through, deep moans escaping me.

* * *

Breaking away, "To the bedroom."

          "Yes sir. At your command sir." and he salutes me.

I grin broadly.

* * *

Once in the bedroom we quickly strip and find ourselves on the bed, side by side kissing hungrily.

I run my fingers through his hair, and my mouth nips at his neck and ears.

Listening to him, his unique sounds, as I understand he's storing this away in his mind palace.

Our cocks are lined up, and I don't want to rush this so I back away.

I see Sherlock look down at our bodies and he grins while beholding my body.

          "I had you as large, but that is huge!"

          "You deduced wrong?"

          "I've been told it's one of my better attributes."

All he can do is continue to look and nod yes and both of us chuckle.

* * *

Looking back up at me, his demeanor now becomes very serious.

          "John, do you want to go this route?

          "Absolutely! And will a sexual relationship with me, with all the problems we have, be enough for you, Sherlock"

          "All we can do is try."

* * *

He kisses me hungrily, and that answers enough questions for now.

Our bodies collide again. I find my lips traveling down his chest; his nipples tweaked, his body hair thoroughly wet from my tongue and mouth.

As I prepare to take his extended cock into my mouth, my detective stops me with his hand.

          "No, no. Not yet."

He pulls me up and finds my neck, nipping, licking my ears. Taking my lips into his mouth and biting, sucking my tongue.

I'm wild, fingernails raking his arms.

          "Control yourself, my good captain. All in good time."

* * *

Finding the gunshot scar on my shoulder, his fingers trace the scar and his lips kiss it.

Now it's his turn to seek my chest and bite, no nibble, his way down almost to my cock.

          "I have to have that in my mouth at some time. But not now."

          "Damn you; I'm going to come soon."

I manage to get out as he closes the space between us and settles our cocks together.

Looking into each other's eyes, we grind and manipulate, so we reach maximum friction.

          " The first one to come has his choice next time," he snarks.

And I come, all over his cock and stomach.

He's next with a yell and squeals.

* * *

Rolling away from him, into post-coital laziness, Sherlock cuddles up to me.  
"Hmm, John?"  
"No talking right now," in a hazy murmur.

* * *

It's dark outside when I next open my eyes, noticing that Sherlock is not at my side.

* * *

Struggling awake and going to the bathroom to wash off the stickiness from during the day's antics I hear clattering in the other room.

Dressing in trousers, I wander in and find Sherlock in the kitchen.

          "What are you-?"

          "Shush, I'm trying to cook dinner," as I see the table cleared of his microscope and lab stuff and instead a mess of vegetable cuttings, etc.

          "Do you need help?" as I hear my stomach grumble

* * *

Sherlock is in his blue dressing gown only, tied loosely at the waist.

          "John, go away, you're bothering me, you're only in my way."

His tone of voice sets me off.

* * *

Grabbing the sash of his gown and pulling him along with me,"talking down to me again are you?"

He has to follow or tear the sash and the gown.

I march him to his chair and push him, so he's sitting.

Standing over him, I slap his face and notice the cup of tea sitting there from yesterday. I throw the liquid in his face and slap him again.

I've lost it this time, no control over my actions and immediately feel bad.

* * *

His eyes are afire with anger, as he looks up at me. The transformation is sudden, it's from fire to desire.

          "No, no, you are not getting your way. No sex for you. Get in that kitchen and make my dinner."

          "Yes, captain," as disappointment is written all over him.

I'm surprised at how fast our roles now keep changing.

* * *

I sit in my chair and contemplate what's happening. Our relationship has certainly progressed from friendship to intimacy. Now what?

* * *

Putting my face in my hands I know what I'd like to happen now.

I want Sherlock to declare his love for me.

There's lots of clanking and banging from the kitchen, but I keep my seat. The aromas clinging to the flat.

* * *

          "Dinner is now served, my captain."

I walk into the kitchen to find the table cleared of food scraps and its set with plates and silverware.

I must admit that Sherlock has done well.

He made chicken breasts in a white wine sauce with corn and asparagus. We had the rest of the wine for our drink.

          "Thank you, Sherlock."

* * *

As we eat we're both quiet and even during the cleaning up the silence is thick.

          "Another talk John?"

          "Yes," and we're back in our chairs.

          "I'd like to voice my view first. I'm beginning to grasp the significance of how dreadful this ordeal must be for you. But harder still is the reasoning behind it. Why?"

* * *

With a heavy heart I stand up and move away. The man still doesn't recognize what I need.

          "Why are you going to your room? What have I done now?"

          It's not what you've done, but what you haven't. I'm packing. I'm leaving you. Hopefully to find someone somewhere that will appreciate me."

Nothing, no noise, no movement.

* * *

Up the stairs to my bedroom to pack a few things. Keeping a steady resolve and knowing I can't crumble I head down to get my coat.

Sherlock is still in his seat.

* * *

The coat on, I go to open the door and find the tall detective standing in my way.

          "No, No, you can't. Can't leave. Can't desert me." The sounds he's making are husky, rough.

* * *

My head down, not wanting to see his face or his damnable eyes I try to move him. Staying as tight in my mind as I can. No giving in this time.

His hands on either side of my head holding me in place, he tilts down to kiss me.

I turn myself away, knowing a kiss would undo me.

* * *

Now he's down on his knees, his arms wrap around my waist, head into my stomach.

          "You don't mean it, Can't just step away from me."

* * *

Sobs emanate from him, deep and blubbering. His face buried in my waist.

          "John, -don't, -don't.- I love you,'- he shouts between his sobs.

And the sobbing continues.

          "I love-love, John- You!" Choking on his words.

* * *

In a small voice, I say,"stand up, please."

He does, and I almost have to laugh to see how pitiful he looks. His face running with tears.

* * *

Putting my bag down I lead him, like a puppy, to the sofa. 

Sitting down next to him, I find a handkerchief in my pocket and try to wipe up the tears all the while shushing him, like you would a child.

* * *

          "A glass of water and then you can continue," rising to the kitchen and back again.

We're facing each other on the sofa, not touching, as I wait.

* * *

          "Forgive me, forgive me, John. I haven't been able to put a voice to it. Afraid you'd leave if you knew my true affections."

          "Why? Why would you think that?"

          "You kept going on, not gay, your mantra. I've wanted you from the first day at Barts. And my love has only gotten stronger."

I hush him while wiping his face.

          "Let me follow through my thoughts. I knew, surmised how you felt and tried to deflect it by ridiculing you. You see," and his head lowers,"I'm not worthy of you." The tears fall again.

* * *

I'm dumbfounded!

          "You thought that?"

His head bobs up and down.

          "Jesus, you stupid git! And all the time I've thought I was the stupid one! Sherlock Holmes, you look at me right now!"

* * *

He looks up, with a sad, downtrodden look.

>  
Taking his chin in my hand, my voice soft-spoken.

          "Don't you see what we've done? In not expressing our feelings, in holding back we've only made it worse. Because you see, Mister Holmes, I love you also."

* * *

The biggest smile I've ever seen crosses his face. 

And both of us start to laugh and continue to laugh nervously and to wipe our eyes. A few light kisses ensue, our bodies stiffen, and our eyes caress each other.

          "No, before anything, John, tell me, why the beating. Why did you insist on that way."

          "Ah, Sherlock, how dense can you be! What does any beating do? It gets the truth out."


End file.
